Free Dead Silent by Neil White

price worth paying.’
    ‘Do you really believe that?’ I said.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said, smiling, ‘but if you’ll print it, trade might just pick up.’
    I closed my notebook and thanked him for his time. It seemed like the interview was over.
    As I went to leave, Danny put his hand on my arm. ‘If you see Susie again, pass on my regards. Maybe there’s still time for unfinished business.’ He raised his eyebrows and grinned at me.
    I looked down and saw the glimmer of his wedding ring, and then I noticed the drip of coleslaw on his shirt, and the chewed bread between his teeth.
    ‘Maybe some dreams are worth letting go,’ I said, and then as I left the room I muttered, ‘for her sake’.

Chapter Twelve
    Frankie grunted as he pulled his Vespa onto its stand outside the
Blackley Telegraph
offices, the sister paper to
The Valley Post.
The building was all seventies glass and steel frames, with painted panels and a brightly-lit sign on the front, although one corner had cracked so that leaves and dust had blown in over time.
    Frankie remembered when it was new, when he was a boy, excited at seeing the old tramlines and cobbles exposed like skeletons from underneath the tarmac when they rebuilt the town centre, before the buses that rumbled past it every day dirtied the front.
    He looked around nervously though. He didn’t like it around the bus station. The gangs of kids used to taunt him, take his money and laugh at him, small groups of trouble dressed all in black. He had bought a scooter when his mother died—she wouldn’t let him have one when she was alive—so that he wouldn’t have to get the bus any more.
    He walked into the
Telegraph
building and then jumped as the entry mat emitted a buzzing sound when he stepped on it. There was a large wooden counter in front of him, with photographs from the paper pinned to the wall behind, showing people in suits holding giant cheques and a display of schoolboy football teams. That day’s edition was fannedout on a small round table. A young woman appeared out of a doorway. Her badge said she was called Jackie.
    He lifted his goggles onto his crash helmet. She looked surprised, startled almost, although he didn’t know why. He always wore them, particularly in summer. They kept the flies and fumes out of his eyes.
    He smiled. She was wearing a vest top, and he could see the outline of the lace on her bra-cup. He liked that.
    ‘What can I do for you?’ she said.
    Frankie thought she sounded nervous. He watched her delicate fingers as they toyed with a pen in her hand. He wondered where she lived.
    ‘I’m Frankie,’ he said quietly, ‘and I’m looking for a reporter.’
    ‘You’ve come to the right building, Frankie.’
    He shook his head. She didn’t understand. ‘No, not any reporter. He drives a red sports car. Jack Garrett.’
    ‘Why do you want him?’
    ‘He’s writing about Claude Gilbert.’
    She raised her eyebrows at that. ‘He doesn’t work for us. He’s freelance, lives somewhere in Turners Fold.’
    ‘Do you have an address?’
    Frankie thought she was about to tell him, but she stopped and looked embarrassed. ‘I can’t give out addresses,’ she said.
    ‘But I need it,’ he said, and he leant forward onto the counter. It made her step back quickly.
    ‘Just wait there,’ she said. ‘What’s your name again?’
    ‘Frankie.’
    ‘Just Frankie?’
    He nodded.
    She disappeared into the doorway again, and Frankie could hear her whispering to someone. They were talking about him. He felt tears prickle his eyes. He had blown it again.
    He should have found the reporter on the internet, made his own way there.
    He turned to leave, his fists clenched with frustration, and as he rushed for the door, his footsteps set off the entry buzzer again.
    He took some deep breaths and put his fingers to his cheeks when he reached the street. They felt hot. He slipped his goggles back over his eyes and then sat astride his scooter, fumbling